The Hedgehog Who Outsmarted the Tax Collectors

For forty-four years and two months, the hedgehog had lived a perfectly peaceful life in the fog. No responsibilities. No annoying neighbors. And, most importantly, no taxes. The fog was his shield, his protector, his most loyal friend.

If someone invited him for Birch juice, he’d sigh dramatically and say, “I can’t. I’m a hedgehog in the fog.”

If a flirty she-hedgehog batted her lashes and hinted at marriage, he’d shake his head solemnly. “I can’t. I’m a hedgehog in the fog.”

It worked every time. The fog made him mysterious, untouchable, like a woodland wizard who had no time for foolishness. And best of all? No one came knocking to borrow mushrooms. The only ones he was willing to share were toadstools, preferably to neighbors he didn’t like.

Life was good. Until one morning, the fog disappeared.

The hedgehog woke up, stretched, and immediately froze in horror. His beloved mist, the one thing that had kept him hidden from taxes, social obligations, and small talk—was gone. For the first time in forty-four years, the sun hit his house. His tiny wooden door, once safely camouflaged, was visible to the world.

And the world noticed.

A loud knock rattled his door. The hedgehog felt his soul leave his body. He crept to the peephole, hoping it was just a traveling salesman or perhaps a lost squirrel.

It was worse.

Two tax inspectors. And not just any tax inspectors—pigs.

They stood there, their round bellies stuffed into official-looking suits, their hairy snouts twitching with a strong desire to collect unpaid debts. The hedgehog swallowed hard. He had never paid taxes. Ever. Not once. He had successfully avoided the government for over four decades, thanks to his beautiful, perfect fog.

“May we come in?” one of the pigs oinked.

The hedgehog, now feeling faint, stepped aside. He had no choice. The pigs waddled in, their small, suspicious eyes darting around the hut like grandmothers inspecting a dirty kitchen.

“Where’s your toilet?” one asked.

“Are you going to tax my bathroom?” the hedgehog snapped.

The pigs ignored him and scribbled something down. Probably adding a fine for ‘lack of proper facilities’. Then came the dreaded question.

“When did you last pay your taxes?”

The hedgehog stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. I remember it clearly! The first time I paid… was also the last.”

The pigs’ ears twitched dangerously.

“Do you own any property?”

“Only this house. And I’m willing to sell it for one acorn.”

The pigs glared at him.

Then, their beady eyes locked onto the mushrooms drying on the wall. “And what are these?”

“Porcini!” the hedgehog said quickly.

“Then why are they green?”

“Ah… well… they always look like that… when drying…”

One pig narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be drying any… unusual mushrooms, would you?”

The hedgehog forced a smile. “Oh no, no, of course not! But… would you like to try some?”

One pig licked his lips before the other one elbowed him sharply. “We don’t eat on duty.”

The hedgehog sighed. There went that plan.

Then, one of the pigs spotted something in the corner. “And what is this stubby little thing?”

The hedgehog gasped. “That is NOT a stub! That is my geranium!”

“We’re confiscating it.”

The hedgehog watched in horror as they stuffed his poor geranium into a bag like criminal evidence. And in that moment, he did something reckless.

As they turned to leave, he bit off half of the geranium and swallowed it. Immediately, it got stuck in his throat. “Even my plants are against me,” he thought bitterly, coughing.

The pigs didn’t notice—they were already stepping out the door. And that’s when the hedgehog saw something miraculous.

The fog was back!

The thick mist rolled in like a silent army, swallowing the trees, the road, and, most importantly—the tax inspectors.

With great enthusiasm, the hedgehog swung the door open wider, shoving the pigs into the thickest, mistiest part of the fog. “Well then, farewell!” he cried joyfully, slamming the door behind him.

And with that, the hedgehog was free once more.

For another forty-four years and two months, the tax collectors searched for his hut in the fog…

And never found it again.

The End.